Slipping Away
by Alia Ziaen
Summary: Your brain is too crammed full of her name and pain and fear and ohgoddon’tdie and blood and bullets and wondering.


There is fear in her eyes, and she is everything deep and meaningful and happy in your life, and you don't want her to be afraid, because if she is afraid, then something is going to go horribly wrong.

There is nothing good about guns. They bring only death and destruction, and you pass it off as justice, but it's not, really, is it? There are so many guns.

Fluorescent lit hallway, bullets heading towards you and away from you, two ends, two ways this can be over, but where will the bullets land? Everything depends on that.

Shouting and screaming pass over your head and don't quite reach your ears, and your brain isn't receiving any messages, and this is a problem, but you keep pulling the trigger.

For a moment the gun in your hand is plastic and the barrel isn't really a barrel, it's just a stick of material with no place for wounding anyone, unless you hit them over the head with it, but _no_ you have to pay attention because if you don't, then she may die.

Bullets fly, and you see her fly back with them, and the only logical explanation is that she has been hit, but that is the one explanation that your brain will reject, because this cannot be happening, she's too special, oh God why is this happening?

The gun is still in her hand, and you recognize her struggle to pull the trigger because you have watched her do it a million times over, you could do it with her if you wanted. Something isn't working right, though, and she can't do it, because her brain is not receiving messages anymore, and you see that she has the only clear shot, and you can't think, so you reach over and wrap your hands around hers and don't even bother to line up the shot just pull the trigger because you trust her that much.

The gunfire stops, and you throw your gun away except that you already have and you don't know when that happened, but now hers is yours, and you pull it gently out of her hands, and she blinks up at you and your brain finally receives a message: _panic._

There, that's the wound, and you put your hands on it because someone told you once that's what you should do, and you say her name over and over and over and you need something to anchor her to you, to keep her from floating away because she can't do this to you, it's not allowed, what kind of a partner would she be if she left you like this and there's blood on your hands and you try not to think that it's hers, but it is, and you both know it, and she's trying to talk and you don't have the strength to tell her not to.

You don't even think about why you were here in the first place. The bad guys don't matter, they've been stopped, and all that matters is that you save her, because she has saved you and it's only polite to return the favor.

A number rushes through your brain, but doesn't register because the main thought is still _panic_ followed closely by _oh God oh God don't die please don't die_, and you don't even know how serious the wound is, but bullets kill and that's all you need to know and _ohGoddon'tdie._

Someone else must have thought of the number because now there are people around you and someone is moving your hands and replacing them with their own and he's not allowed to do that only you are allowed to do that, but he tells you it will save her life, and so you let him because she isn't allowed to die, but she can't stop it on her own. She's not superhuman.

Someone leads you away, and you think you know them but your brain is too crammed full of her name and pain and fear and _ohgod__**don'tdie**_ and blood and bullets and wondering.

And the next thing you know, you're sitting at her bedside in what must be a hospital, and you have no recollection of how you got there, and the nurse is telling you she's just come out of surgery and you refused to be anywhere else and from the look on her face she thinks you may need some surgery yourself but that doesn't matter, it only matters that she doesn't die, and the nurse tells you that she won't, she's strong and their surgeons are very good and it wasn't a fatal wound, but it may result in loss of something-something and now you've tuned her out.

You're far more interested in studying her in bed in front of you, making sure that she's alright, and wondering exactly what sort of inspirational conversations you're supposed to have with your best friend/partner/love whose current residence is a hospital bed. You're not good at this sort of thing.

You realize, however dimly, that you haven't come out of shock yet.

That's a problem, right?

Maybe once she wakes up she can talk you down, because that's a magical skill she has that no one else does, and how long is she going to be here anyway because you might need to find out if they have a place you can stay that doesn't require that you be injured or ill.

You may be ill, but that's beside the point.

You need to watch over her, to make sure that she's alright, that you aren't going to lose her, because you've lost her before and you won't let it happen again, you're far too stubborn for that.

You sit with your head in your hands trying unsuccessfully to talk yourself out of whatever funk it is you've fallen in to and this was going on before the fire fight, wasn't it? YOu don't remember, and anyway it doesn't matter. She's alright, she's here, she's functioning, albeit with the help of machines, but that doesn't _matter._

You may not be alright. In fact, it's more than likely that you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

On the verge? No, that's not right.

Over the edge.

Fallen off the cliff.

You're drowning in a _sea_ of nervous breakdown.

Blood on your hands. Her blood on your hands.

Your gun. Where did you put your gun?

Next to hers. Still back with the bad guys.

Ok, breathe. She's alright. Why are you freaking out? This doesn't make sense.

Something tickles at the back of your mostly non-responsive brain. A memory that maybe you shouldn't have or of something that you shouldn't have done. You're a master at suppressing things.

Maybe that's not the best thing right now.

Something… something that should not be.

A face? Whose? Why does it matter anyway, as long as she's safe?

The nurse. The nurse will know. You need to ask her something. What do you need to ask her?

She responds to your thoughts, or something, and appears with a clipboard in hand.

You need to ask her. Ask her –

"Did I kill the right man?"

It's completely unexpected. You don't even know where the question comes from, but it is vitally important somehow.

She looks at you with pity in her eyes, and shakes her head.

"Then who –"

And then you jerk awake, and wait, what's happening, where is she, is she still hurt?

There is no hospital. Your hands are still pressed against her wound, and there is no one. No one else has thought of the number, and you are afraid that if you let go of her she will slip away, and so you hold her and then you look at the wound and you realize somehow that even if you did call someone to come help it wouldn't do any good because there's no recovering from this and what's wrong with you, you should be doing everything to try to keep her alive.

There are no nurses, only guns and blood and where will she go, who will help her, why are you so resigned to this, her fate?

She's slipping away from you, and there's nothing you can do.

So you watch.


End file.
